Notturno
by Shari Aruna
Summary: [Post-Series] Here, dear enemies, a secret for you: Angel makes his own hell every night.


I.

He still dreams of Buffy sometimes. Dreams of her eyes and her smile, the scent of blood and strawberry lipstick, the way she used to stand on her tiptoes and tilt her head to kiss him. Dreams of the sword in her hands when she sent him to hell, and how she said __I love you__ just before killing him (he didn't tell Connor that he loved him before cutting his throat, and he wonders if that's better or worst, if love can really justify death and if truths whispered at the end of your life are better than lies that can keep you alive)

He dreams of her shouting at him. About Faith ( "__You chose her over me__" she said, and she sounded hurt and cold and still so obviously in love with him) and about Spike ( "__How could you not tell me he was alive? How could you?__" and hearing the tears in her voice, that's what really hurt, even more than the fact that it was her first call to him in years) and about a life that never happened because he was too stupid to accept a gift he never deserved, no matter what The Powers That Can Go Fuck Themselves seemed to believe ("__I'll never forget__" she promised, yet she did, and it was unfair for him to expect otherwise, but)

He dreams of her crying while telling him about the place in her heart that Spike had stolen away. __You want to know why? Because he was alive, Angel, more alive than I was at the time, and more alive you've ever been.__ (and he remembers James telling him the same thing not so long ago. Looks like his progeny got all the life he never had. Angelus used to laugh at them for that. Called them children, taunted them. And how ironic is that now, really) __He danced and laughed and ate pizza, and he didn't do it for me, but because he liked it. He still likes it. He breathes while he has sex and he sighs when he comes, you knew that?__ (yes, as a matter of fact he did) __It's nothing like fucking a dead man with him.__ (I'm sorry that I'm dead, Buffy)

He dreams of her dying and never come back.

He dreams of her in hell.

And some nights he wakes up and it feels like he had all of those dreams in a row. Some nights they don't even feel like dreams, just like the truths he's now too old to keep ignoring.

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II.

The only warning he gets is a soft 'whooops', then Spike falls on his bed, wet clothes and muddy boots and all. Angel doesn't even have the time to say __what the fuck__ before he starts blabbing, his stupid radioactive head nestled on the pillow just next to his.

"Okay, so, if the world was ending and killing her was like- like, the only way to save it... 'Cuz I was wondering, y' know? and, and if it was you I'd kill you, of course I'd kill you, I just need a good excuse to kill ya, y' know? but. But her, if the world was ending and I... If she... Bloody hell, where are my cigaret- Oi, give it back! Fine, keep it, Champion-Of-The-Thieves. And stop distracting me. I mean it. Would you kill her, you stupid ponce?"

"Would you kill her?", he asks again, more softly this time, and he's drunk, he's always drunk when he tumbles into his bed, but some nights are different than others for him too, darker and scarier and full of memories he never shared with Angel, and on those nights, unlike him, Spike seeks sober lies instead of drunken truths.

And usually Angel wouldn't give a rat shit about what Spike needs or wants, but you know what the say about getting soft in your old age, and Angel's really old and really tired now, and Buffy's really far away, and Spike looks really young and lost, and why the fuck should he always play the hero anyway?

So he lies. And he doesn't care.

"No, I couldn't kill her, either", he answers. "But I'll gladly kill you too, if I had such a good excuse."

And Spike smiles and god, god, on nights like this one, it's more than enough.

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III.

Connor never calls him __daddy__ (never had the chance to, because __daddy__ is a children word and if Connor ever said it, fake reality or not, it was always a name for another man) (a name Angel lost, a name Angel gave up), and it's actually a good thing, because he hates that word, hates the memories it brings.

Broken dolls and holy places, little girls praying and begging and dying, his sister crying out for their father, lullabies for dead things, masterpieces, dark curls wrapped around his fingers, fucking her on the church's floor, brushing her hair with bloody hands, counting the stars on his chest, lace and silk and hot wax on naked skin, crazy talk about fishes and pixies, snakes in the woodshed, snakes in the woodshed, snakes in the woodshed, a beautiful pale little bottom turning red underneath his hand, getting candies for his dead children, whips and chains, hate and love, family dinners, fairy tales written in blood and tears, Angelus' loved ones.

And some nights he still can't help thinking about her, his only daughter, his greatest sin. And he can hear Drusilla laughing in his head.

(__Damaged and yours forever, daddy. Eternal torment, you said, and eternal torment it is __)

Connor never calls him __daddy__ and it's actually a good thing, because Angel can be a father, a brother, a friend, a champion, a lover, but he'll never be a daddy (all of these things at once) again.

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IV.

Spike once told him that Illyria likes to dance, sometimes. Alone, on the roof, under the stars that nobody can really see, surrounded by her flowers and the sound of car horns coming from the streets.

He remembers him saying that she looked like an unwritten tragedy, and when Angel tried to picture her in his mind (because nobody with a shred of survival instinct would ever be so crazy to actually spy on her) (nobody but Spike, obviously) all he could see was Darla.

Darla, dancing in a dark alley, jasmines in her hair, her pale body shining like pearls and old bones under the moonlight.

Darla, smiling with red lips and black eyes, mouth full of dirty little secrets and no big regrets, blood on her hands and bite marks on her neck.

Darla, always a whore and never a mother, except when it counted, of course.

He wondered if he'd ever see her again in hell, and then remembered he didn't.

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V.

He can see them better in the dark, when the shadows hide the blood and he can focus on their faces instead. (He can still smell it, though)

Doyle, and Cordelia, and Wesley, and Fred.

(Those who die are always heroes)

Sometimes Kate, and Lorne, and Gunn, and a baby that once upon a time was his Connor.

(Those who are lost are always a secret grief)

He can see all of them in the dark, but they never look back. (They just stand there, reeking of blood)

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VI.

It makes him laugh how the Senior Partners' idea of hell was actually something with flames and demons in it. So damn cliché. But evil always is. He's not going to tell them, of course, but if there's one thing he knows about it, is that to make a good hell you need someone who knows something about good. Or, at least, someone with a past and a conscience.

__Handsome man saved me from the monsters. (and then he fed me to one of them) __

__The Father will kill The Son. (and you did it, you did it, you bastard) __

__Where we in love? (we were. And I died because of it) __

__Drusilla sired me, but you made me a monster. (and you really can't fix that, can you, git?) __

__I love you. (and I'll kill you anyway)__

__You are not my father. (and you never will be, not even now) __

Here, dear enemies, a secret for you: Angel makes his own hell every night.

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VII.

There is this one night, though.

Bad month, bad week, bad day, and he returns home covered in blood and splattered brain, face like a twilight made of bruises, jacket and jeans in shreds, missing one of his shoes.

And there they are.

On the couch.

Laughing.

And playing video games.

They don't even bother to look at him, too busy trying to press buttons with one hand and distract the adversary with the other. There are beers on the table in front of them, and french fries scattered all over the carpet. Spike's smoking, the cigarette barely hanging from the corner of his mouth while he cheers and laughs and scoffs at the kid next to him, and Connor returns all the teasing, American slang versus British (the only fight Angel can't really join on neither side), and elbows the vampire into the ribs to make him lose concentration.

And Angel just stands by the door, looking at them, unsure whether to smile or cuff them both around the head. Instead he just stares in silence for a little while, and once he's sure to have that picture saved for good into his memory, he heads for his room, craving a shower even more than a drink.

Family's still a strange feeling. Warm. Nice. Good.

"Turn down the sound of that damn thing", he shouts anyway, just to make a point that he's home and displeased with them.

A "yes, Grampa" in a mocking tone is all the answer he gets. From both of them. In chorus. Connor's spending too much time with Spike, Angel decides. And he almost goes back on his feet to give them that good smack he had in mind, but they are still laughing and teasing each other, and that's really too much of a nice thing to spoil it just on a principle.

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><p>AN: English's still not my first language, so embarrassing mistakes are probably still an issue. Let me know if you find one, I'll give you a cookie.


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